


Rebirth

by SilverTonguedSlytherin1



Series: The Force Provides to the Faithful [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Death Watch (Star Wars), Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Haat Mando'ade, Jedi, Jedi Culture, Jedi Training, Kyr'staad, Mandalore, Mandalorian Culture, Mandalorian Jedi, Mandalorian Wars, Mando'a, New Mandalorians, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tatooine Slave Culture, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, True Mandalorians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22187314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverTonguedSlytherin1/pseuds/SilverTonguedSlytherin1
Summary: There are no second chances at life, they say. However, they also say that, through the Force, all things are possible, as long as one keeps the faith.Obi-Wan Kenobi has kept his faith.At long last, the Force provides.
Series: The Force Provides to the Faithful [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597120
Comments: 62
Kudos: 641
Collections: Favorite Rereads





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Desert Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18206480) by [Blue_Sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine). 



The land-speeder's engine sputters, shrieks, and then dies with a jolt, slamming Ben amd Arla into the drive shaft before it lists and finally stops. The sand the wind kicks up to scrape against the battered metal sounds like laughter.

  
They do not bother asking if each other is all right, trusting that they would feel it in the Force. 

  
Ben and Arla jump from the speeder, swaying and cursing in thirteen different languages as their fingers tear at the latches for the engines. They are thankful for their _beskar'gam_ as sand strafes at it. A sandstorm is rolling up on them. If had the speeder been fully functional, they would have been back at their hovel well before it reached them, but they have been gradually losing speed this entire trip back from Mos Eisley, and the edges of it are threatening them now.

  
He gets the engine open and immediately pries at the air-filter, which is no doubt choked with dust. Something with bulbous, milk-blue eyes and a very sharp beak snaps at his gauntlet when he gets the air-filter open, and Ben yelps in fright. The little vermin scurries out, wads of fiber packed in its mouth, and half a dozen more follow, each no large than his thumb.

  
“No,” Ben says shortly. “No. No.” He stumbles to the rear storage compartment behind Arla. She rips it open, and a dozen more scatter out, shrieking, leaping out of the speeder. Ben smacks two from his armor and then digs into the compartment with roiling nausea.

  
Their spare filters are utterly ruined, the fiber-lines stripped from the frames by the little vermin. They stares at their misery for a long minute, wind whipping at their _beskar'gam_ , and then gives in to a fit of pique which they will likely regret later. They yell, loud, angry, and wordless, and slams a fist against the machine. The Force roils around them in their frustration, and the metal shrieks and shears as it is rent unnaturally, and then the speeder…snaps, sections flying in different directions and crashing with satisfying force.

  
Ben is left panting, shaking from head to toe. He turns and retches, nausea finally overcoming him, staggers away from the mess, and then sinks into the sand, utterly spent. Arla quivers, the Force churning in her gut. There is static, on her skin and in her bones. It frightens her, but Ben just holds her steady.

  
In the distance, the sandstorm looks like a solid wall, like a clean line bearing down, but up close, once it reaches you, it does not come for you all at once. It starts as a dust, fine and light and almost imperceptible, carried on a gusting breeze that would feel like relief on any other day. The dust grows thicker, until it coats everything, until it is a taste and haze and then it clears some, like a reprieve. Then the wind hits stronger. Then the sand comes, starting as a whistling hiss and growing into a roaring scream, and then you are in it, and it is fury and chaos with no way out, snarling and crackling with power.

  
Ben and Arla crawl on hands and knees towards the broken pieces of the speeder. There is a tarp in the main compartment just for this purpose, to cover themselves with if they ever get caught in a storm, even though their _beskar'gam_ could easily protect them. 

  
In fact, there are three tarps, actually, and each one packed in by someone other than Arla or Ben. The slave who worked at the junk shop where Ben acquired the speeder had packed the first one when his master was not looking. He had eyed Ben warily when he assured the red-skinned boy that it was not necessary. The slave had done it anyway, and Ben had not pressed the issue. 

  
The second had been forced on them by Beru, when she had seen how small and tattered the first one was. She had asked them if they were that much fools or if they had death wishes. Neither had answered her because neither had answers to give her. 

  
The third had been strapped to the rear compartment by Old Nan Jira, who sold desert fruits at market and always had a canteen of water to share among the slave-children. “One for each of you, and one for those in need,” she had told Arla, after giving her their usual order of Japur butter, which was a gritty kind of paste made from the soft insides of Japur pods. It was a rather necessary remedy for the painful sunburn they acquire whenever they face Tatooine's suns without their _beskar'gam_ , but it also helps against the chafing their armor causes. 

  
Ben digs out a small trench in the sand next to the upturned side of his speeder, while Arla grabs several of their packs from the speeder. They are not foolish enough to try to save everything, but there are things they need to survive, and, more importantly, there are things the Empire must not find. They quickly crawl into the trench, fastening the tarp and pulling it down over their bodies, creating a small pocket of protection. They listen to the storm as it screams over them.

  
Ben tends to watch over the Larses from afar, passing along the ridge east of their farmstead on his rare trips into town, and otherwise simply reaching out to feel them through the Force, while he mediated outside his hovel at night. When he did visit, normally because Beru saw him lurking and flagged him down, he did not know what to say. By and large because he did not know who to be.

  
Ben was once Obi-Wan. He was once the Sith-Killer, a Knight, a Master, a General, a High General, a Councilor, and the Negotiator. Now, he was Ben, a Mando more than a Jedi, a warrior more than a peacekeeper. It was difficult to know who he should be when, for so long, his every move was calculated under one of those titles, when, for so long, his role and its behavior was always so clear-cut. 

  
Beru never minded the awkward silence, however. She drew him and Arla into the cool shade of her kitchen, and sat them down at the table. She let them sit in silence, offered them a cup of tea, and she filled the quiet for them, gently rocking Luke in her arms. Owen would sometimes pass through, and he seemed far more bothered by Ben’s unnerving silence and the ragged desolation ever present in his eyes.

  
It was Beru Whitesun, wife of Lars, who told them the stories all the desert children knew. They were stories Anakin once have must known. She told them of Ar-Amu, the All-Mother, who watched over her children from her seat in the moon. She told them of Ekkreth the Trickster, who was not the villain but the savior, the guardian of slaves and the hidden folk. She told them of Leia the Great Krayt Dragon, to whom all the shackled people prayed, for Leia was Unfettered, was she who broke her own chains, and she represented strength and freedom to her people. Beru did not ask why Ben crumpled at the story, why he curled in on himself and buried his face in his hands, but did not weep. She told them of Lukka the Fury, who was the sandstorm, both cleansing and damning. Lukka, the slaves believed, was Justice, was he who remade the world, and remade the soul.

  
The storm screams at them, and they scream back at it.

~*~

When the storm passes, Ben feels….oddly settled. His entire body aches deeply, but screaming out his rage and grief and loneliness and guilt had eased a great deal of darkness from his soul. The occasional colossal loss of control was, apparently, cathartic.

  
Arla is oddly wrung-out. She is not full of static any longer, but its absence is jarring. Ben wraps her in his Force-presence until she is recovered enough to push him away. " _Ni jate, buir_ ," she insists, and he does not call her out on the lie. 

  
They dig themselves out of the weight of sand now burying them, the speeder, and everything else they might recognize. The pale dawn of first sunrise is just coming up, turning the world violet and blue and pale yellow, and Arla judges that they are precisely in the middle of nowhere. Ben points that they are probably still closer to Mos Eisley than to their hovel, so they would be better served by walking back south.

  
They take a moment to look over what supplies they have. They have three packs, one of which is full of medical supplies, including the jar of Japur butter. Another has compressed, dehydrated ration packs, a block of pressed _shig_ , and two canteens, although one is nearly empty. The last has the new circuits they had purchased for their malfunctioning vaporators. Beneath them are other items, however, including Ben's journals and Qui-Gon's lightsaber. These items are far too valuable to leave in their hovel, just in case something happened to it while they were gone. Ben and Arla both double-check the secret compartments in their armour where the memory sticks for the data pads are hidden. 

  
Ben rolls and ties one of the tarps up to a pack, shoulders it, and sighs, trudging through the dust back towards town. Arla does the same, and they almost fight over who carries the third pack, neither wanting to weigh the other down. 

  
With luck, some enterprising Jawa’s might find the wreck of the speeder, put it back together, and sell it back to them the next time they brought their caravan by the hovel.  
Arla and Ben have been on Tatooine for almost four years. The long walk through the sand and scrub no longer bother either of them. They spend most mornings wandering aimlessly out on the edge of the Jundland Wastes. It had taken them less than a month to procure staffs to carry on these walks, as it became vitally necessary to fend off the odd attack of a Tusken. The Tuskens have learned they are formidable opponents, and the pair have begun to suspect that challenging them has become a game for the younger warriors among the nearest tribe. It is not a fighting style they were used to before arriving on Tatooine, but they have learned it. If nothing else, it keeps them active, keeps them from growing complacent in their skills and strength. It helps them sleep too, sometimes, at least. 

  
Most nights, however, once they have exhausted themselves walking and working and training, they spend on a rock shelf above the hovel, looking out over the dust sea and the most stars either has ever seen while still on-planet. They let themselves drift in the Force, a less directed and more successful meditation than anything they had been taught in the Temple. 

  
They have visions of the ongoing misery in the galaxy, of the dark dread that is hunting the last of their peoples and slaughtering them. They hallucinate, some nights, swearing they can hear the dead, catching glimpses of ghosts, losing their sense of time and place until they are violently sucked back into their own bodies, gasping in pain and theirs heads reeling.

  
They cast their senses out, so they can feel Mos Eisley long before they arrive. They can sense the heatbaked stone, the deep wells, the people, individual life-forms each bright and noisy and far easier to distinguish than they have ever been. Ben is far more in-tune with the Force these days, for all that he has never been powerful in it the way the great Masters were, the way Anakin was. During the war, it had felt almost impossible to reach, but Tatooine and a great deal of brooding had taught him not to reach out for it, as the Temple had shown them, but to reach inside himself. His connection to the Force existed within him, and what he called for beyond his own skin was not separate from that, but one and the same.

  
It was an epiphany he reached when he was utterly delirious from lack of sleep. Hallucinating an out of body experience was not a method he recommended for helping teach Padawans to deepen their understanding of the Force, despite the fact that Arla credited it with her own understanding of the Force, with her achieving her Knighthood.  
They finally reach the outskirts and all but collapse in a spot of shade, sweat drenching their _kutise_. Second sunrise is coming up, and midday soon follows. The air shimmers with heat and most beings take shelter. Even slaves are rarely forced out at this time, when it is all too easy to fall prey to heat exhaustion, all too easy to die of it.

  
Their heads are pounding, but their senses are all oddly alert, their skin practically buzzing. It is the same and different from what Arla felt last night. The energy encourages them to get back up, for all their minds and muscles protest.

  
There seem to be decidedly more people in Mos Eisley today than there were yesterday. The cantinas and markets are crowded, and neither can quite fathom the sudden influx of slaves. The Empire all but condones the practice, but the blockade against the Hutts had diminished their presence on Tatooine greatly. Perhaps the blockade had been dissolved? They deliberately kept themselves apprised only by rumor, because if they were aware of it, if they knew too much, they would not be able to not go back out in the galaxy, to not act, and that was no longer their place. Ben's purpose now is to watch over Luke, and Arla's purpose is to heal and help the people around her, not to fight, although her very being yearns for it.

  
They slip themselves into one of the more crowded establishments which they know to be more Mando-friendly. They earn a few knowing looks for the sheer amount of dust and sand-cake on their armours, and they quickly acquire a jug of water and something to eat with the few wupiupi remaining in Ben's pockets; their rule is that one of them has to keep money on their person, so Arla does not touch her own. The bartender ribs them a bit about getting caught in the storm, and Arla jokes back, "I thought I could beat it, and _Buir_ did not want to tell me ' _nayc_ ', so..." she finishes with a shrug. The bartender laughs, unsure if she was joking or serious. He leaves quickly, and the pair lets the conversations around them wash over them.

  
They grow steadily more puzzled. Spice traders are talking fees in one corner, as though the blockade has not put the prices up nearly double what they are estimating. A few gamblers are grumbling about last week's races, and the names they mention are all unfamiliar. Then there is a name they hear once and considers a mistake, and then again, and again.

  
Gardulla the Hutt, they are saying, is paying a visit to Mos Eisley.

  
Except…Gardulla the Hutt is dead. Ben knows because Anakin had commented on it, when her name came up on one report of many, while they were investigating the rise of the new criminal empire which had been pulled together by Maul and Savage. Arla knows because many of her patients still spat the Hutt's name.

  
Ben grips the edge of the table and breathes deeply, trying to reassure himself that he is awake and that he is not hallucinating. It all certainly feels real enough, for all that it makes no sense whatsoever. Arla twitches, feeling uncomfortable and worried but not nursing any large doubts. After all, throughout her entire life, Arla had been told, "All things are possible with the Force." 

  
They finish their meals and slip back out of the cantina. They listen to the Force prod them this way, that way. They find themselves on the edge of Mos Eisley’s shopping district, where a massive ship has settled down and a small settlement of elaborate portable structures have sprung up around it. Slaves with Gardulla’s emblem dart around, serving gamblers and bounty hunters and traders alike. There are fights being bet on off to the left, and exotic animals snarl and spit at them from too-small cages to the right. They are pulled through the throng until they all but knock over a poor slave carrying some odd sprayer contraption that smells like swamp-water even through their helmets.

  
“Forgive me!” she cries, dropping to her knees, “I must attend my mistress.” 

  
Her hair is brown and tightly braided, her limbs and face too-thin with hunger and work, but not weakness. Her skin is strafed, as if she had been standing in the sandstorm, scratches and welts forming scabs that would become fine scars without treatment. They had had the protection of the tarps, so even without their beskar'gam, their scratches would have healed, but hers were far worse, suggesting she had stood far longer and far too vulnerably in the gale.

  
It is a punishment some owners use, they know.

  
Ben is still trying to figure out why he can feel the Force pulling him towards her, why he can barely even sense her even though he is looking right at her, when he catches a glimpse of her Force signature. Under her shielding, he realizes, dumbfounded at the sheer skill of it, she blazes like only one other person he has ever known. 

  
Ben chokes, a hard half-sob tears hysterically out of his chest and then she does look up, startled.

  
“Is y-your name Sh-“ Ben chokes on it, “Shmi?” He asks, voice thin and thready.

  
Her brown eyes flash hard and fierce and questioning, and then go flat. Her entire expression goes flat and still, inscrutable. “Yes, sir,” she replies, voice meek, just as flat as her expression.

  
Ben’s heart spasms in his chest, and he absently presses a hand to it, wondering if thirty-six is too young to have a heart attack or if stress was simply enough or if he had truly lost his mind or maybe died sometime last night, during the sandstorm.

  
“Oh,” Ben says simply. The woman watches him warily, her eyes on Ben’s hands, and he knows all too well why. “I see. You should take me to your mistress.”

  
She scurries to her feet, fear flashing across her face, but nods meekly, picks up the sprayer, and leads the way.

~*~

Gardulla shrieks when she spies her waylaid slave. She snaps the whip in her hand, but it does not actually strike the slave. Likely, it is because Shmi wisely stopped just outside of its reach until her mistress finished berating her and put Shmi to work misting her fat body, rather than any stray thought of mercy the Hutt may have had.

  
Gardulla then eyes Ben up and down, taking in his armor and its condition. She does the same for Arla, and whatever she sees in them, they must pass her test. “ _Achuta_ ,” she smiles widely, only slightly less grotesque than Jabba, or at least, less slimy. Jabba’s spice addiction had a rather unpleasant effect on his mucus glands, a condition from which Gardulla does not suffer.

  
“ _Chut chut_ ,” Ben returns her greeting, feeling recklessly like he was speeding towards a spectacular crash with no intention of stopping. “ _Dohbra choba bedwana cheeka_ ,” Ben says, feeling as if he has misplaced the grammar a bit.

  
“ _Uba vopa shag?_ ” Gardulla’s brow rises, gesturing to Shmi.

  
Ben nods. 

  
Gardulla makes a wet, gurgling laugh. “ _Kava, outmian stupa?_ "she chortles. How much are you willing to pay, foolish outsider?

  
Ben clears his throat. “Greatest Gardulla, I would never insult you eminence by attempting to make an offer. After all, how could I, a foolish outsider, even contemplate to know her worth to you? I only wish to ask if you would even consider parting with her.”

  
She laughs again, far more boldly, her foul breath wafting over his face even at several paces apart, “You have manners, outsider. They please me.” She blinks, fat fingers tapping as she considers him. “This one is lazy but still useful to me. What could you offer for her?"

  
Ben panics, just for a breath, as Shmi’s eyes flash towards him and away again, full of trepidation. If Ben is – is in the past, or some version of it, then he has nothing in this world but what he carried through the storm. Circuit boards and dusty ration packs are not going to please Gardulla the Hutt.

  
“I have a rare item of value,” Ben says slowly, “A kyber crystal.”

  
Arla's confusion-irritation-you-better-have-a-plan nearly knocks him down with its strength.

  
“Kyber?” Gardulla leans in, intrigued, bulbous eyes glittering. “Only the Jedi have kyber.”

  
“I acquired the crystal from a dead Jedi’s lightsaber,” Ben claims, forcing himself to grin. 

  
Gardulla pins him with her stare, very still as she considers this statement. Then she smiles, a Hutt’s wide, unpleasant smile. “I will consider it a good wager,” she finally booms, licking her lips with a thick tongue. “You may have her, if you win,” Gardulla says. “Fetch me my cards. Tell me, _outmian_ , are you fond of Sabacc?”

  
~*~

  
Ben has played high-stakes Sabacc before, but playing against one of the most powerful Hutts in the galaxy and a Toydarian, neither of whom can be influenced by the Force, a Trandoshan Pirate, and a Weequay smuggler is proving to be one of the most elaborate and desperate schemes he has ever concocted. Half of his opponents hail from species whose physiology makes them incredibly difficult to read, half of them are vacant to his senses in the Force, one of them is a cannibal, and all of them are slavers. Not only is it a game of psychology, but in this particular instance, it is also a game of whom is the better cheater.

  
And the stakes are damning.

  
The Weequay folds and bows out when the stakes grow beyond what he can afford, cutting his losses. The Trandoshan is discovered to have bet with someone else’s property, and gets violently removed from the game.

  
Ben’s hands are starting to shake with adrenalin, but he does not dare drink the wine he has been offered because the nervousness is better than the loss of wit.  
It all falls in a single hand. 

  
Gardulla loses to the Toydarian.

  
The Toydarian loses to Ben.

  
Gardulla’s angered holler rattles the roof of their little gambling den, but it does not devolve into violence, as it might have at Jabba’s. Jabba was a sore loser and a sore winner. Gardulla was more proud than he was.

  
Ben has won not only Shmi, but his own kyber crystal back, the probably sabotaged ship that the Toydarian had entered, an ungodly amount of spice that was the Weequay smuggler's, and a reluctantly delivered stack of cho-mar credits that the Trandoshan parted with in order to avoid paying with his own hide for his false entry. To ensure the safety of his own skin, Ben did not agree to another game, but he did jovially pay for everyone’s next round of drinks, and then grinningly sold the spice back to the smuggler because he had no honest idea of what he could possibly do with it.

  
Gardulla’s majordomo brings Ben the controllers for Shmi’s detonator, and he gives a most gratuitous farewell to the Hutt before he and Arla abscond with his winnings.  
They lead a very quiet Shmi Skywalker towards the parking number he was been given for the new ship.

  
It has two sleeping berths, a fresher, an almost non-existent kitchenette, and what Ben will politely call a smugglers' hold. The Toydarian makes back most of his losses when Ben pays him for all the ‘missing’ and ‘damaged’ components. It is funny how the replacement parts look like an exact match to the original ship.

  
Shmi watches him pace, mostly, huddled on one of the sleeping berths while Ben oversees the repairs, wanting them done as quickly as possible. Arla watches the Toydarian closely, and she seems to always be between him and Shmi. When the Toydarian finally leaves, raking Ben for as many cho-mar as he can, Ben all but falls into the berth across from Shmi, and he lets out one of the most exhausting sighs of his life.

  
“Master?” Shmi implores quietly, and Ben groans, flopping back up, to find her kneeling across from him, head bowed, hands quietly folded in her lap, and he takes a moment to choke on the title she has given him, because it is not- it is not Master Jedi, not teacher nor councilor – it is…it is slaver. It is owner. It is tormentor..

  
By the Sith, he remembers the way Anakin spat the title when he was angry, turning a helm of respect into the worst sort of insult.

  
Arla reacts first. She whips off her helmet, a show of trust from any Mando, quickly and stumbles over her own words as she says, "No, Shmi, no. We do not own you. We are not Depur."

  
Ben pulls off his own helmet and rasps, “I am sorry. I felt it unsafe while he was here, let me just….” Ben rummages for the remote detonator he has been given, reluctantly picking it back up to examine them. “Ah… “He scowls at the devices, punching in the command codes he has been given and cautiously disabling the settings.

“There….deactivated,” he says, having helped Arla do so other times. He hands it to Shmi, and her eyes widen before she snatches it from his hands and presses it against her stomach. Slowly, she gets back to her feet and sits back down on the edge of her berth, before daring to take her eyes off him and examine the devices herself.

  
“My name is Ben,” he says, a whisper in the back of his thoughts telling him that Obi-Wan Kenobi is out there, young and not yet who he will be. His name belongs to that child now, and he… He shakes his head. He and Arla will make sense of this mess... or at least find a way to navigate it.

  
"My name is Arla."

  
“I am Shmi Skywalker,” she says softly, still inspecting the device, “You knew me.”

  
It is not a question.

  
“I…” How does he explain…any of it? He does not want to lie to Shmi and yet the truth, the truth is…horrible. And impossible.

  
Shmi sets the device aside, tucking it safely behind her, where he can not get to them, and pins him with sharp brown eyes. Her eyes are dark and deep, but it is oddly difficult to focus on her face, as if it blurs when he looks at her too closely. He looks away, and in his peripheral he can see a younger woman with her son's snub nose and delicate chin. Her cheekbones are bolder than his, and her coloring is darker. When Ben looks directly at her, he sees someone older, someone whose features are blunt and unremarkable. His gaze wants to slide away from her.

  
It is perhaps the most powerful and complex Hide-Me Force projection he has ever witnessed. Jedi learned the basics of shielding like that as early as the crèche, when it is a game they play in the gardens. Jedi Shadows, it is rumored, can make themselves near invisible with their mastery of the technique.

  
The woman in front of him has never had a single day of formal training in her life.

  
“Have you ever heard of the Jedi?” Ben asks, just as quiet as she. Slaves, he has learned, spoke very softly.

  
“They do not come to Tatooine,” Shmi remarks, “I have heard of them.” Her tone is flat, but her Force signature is tinged with curiosity. He is very clearly Mandalorian, after all, and if anyone knows anything about the relationship of Jedi and Mandalorians, it is that they have killed each other nearly as often as they have crossed paths. 

  
Ben’s expression twists into a wry, pinched grin, “Yes, well. We end up here, it seems, whether we intend to or not.”

  
“You are a Jedi.” Shmi comments, and then hesitates, wringing her hands. “You knew me.”

  
“The Force lead us to you, Lady Shmi,” Arla says carefully.

  
Her pallor turns sickly and she shakes her head in denial, wrapping her arms protectively around herself. Arla understands; to a slave, notice and attention were rarely good things.

  
“You are safe, Shmi,” Ben assures her, being careful not to move towards her. “You are safe. We will not let anyone hurt you.”

  
She watches Ben and Arla warily. "I am free?" she asks, flinching even at the question.

  
“You are,” Ben nods. 

  
Arla calls her pack of medical supplies to her and produces an illegal chip-scanner from a secret compartment. "I can do it whenever you like, Lady Shmi, or we can have it done at a medical facility of your choosing."

  
"Can we do it now?"

  
"Of course," Arla is already getting together the other supplies. 

  
"Can we be alone?" Shmi's gaze flicks to Ben.

  
"Yes. I will go see about acquiring fuel," Ben assents calmly. "I will be awhile. It is not my place to make your choices for you, Shmi, but if you would accompany me to the market this evening, we can get you what you need to be comfortable.

  
Shmi stares at him still, and nods mutely. Ben leaves, hearing the first sob crack before he has made it to the loading ramp, a young woman shattering in relief.

~*~

  
Arla has done this procedure thousands of times. She has done it on the elderly and the young and all in between. She has the most practice on humans and Twi'leks, but those are hardly the only species she has helped. A particularly gruff patient of a still-unknown species had said, "If I run without it being removed, I will be blown up. If you accidentally cut a muscle, I will be paralyzed. It is not a large risk for me."

  
Still, Arla is careful. She runs the scanner over Shmi and finds the chip in her thigh. Arla looks at Shmi, asking for permission to continue. Shmi nods.

  
They do not have any anesthetics. Instead, Arla simply uses the Force to release all feeling in the area from Shmi. It allows the other woman to watch the procedure in its entirety. Arla can feel her amazement-gratitude-relief-joy when Arla hands her the chip. She heals Shmi's leg with the Force, then she uses the scanner to ensure there were no other chips.

  
"Shmi," Arla says softly.

  
"Yes."

  
"Would you like me to heal your other injuries?"

  
"You would do that... for me?"

  
"Of course."

  
"Please."

  
"Okay, do you feel any pain or discomfort anywhere in particular?"

~*~

Ben has no idea where they will choose to go, so he purchases enough fuel to get the ship to Coruscant, plus enough reserves to account for any emergency delays or detours. It leaves Ben’s reserve of cho-mar much, much more modest than it had seemed when he won it at the Sabacc table. He takes a long walk around the market afterwards and pauses by a hole-in-the-wall grill to listen to the races with several very excitable companions. When it begins to near first sunset, and the market readies itself for the evening surge as the heat starts to give way, Ben heads back towards the ship, whose title, he discovered, was _Red Kettle_ , hopefully due to the scuffed red paint job, and not an issue with the heating systems.

  
When Ben returns, Arla is sitting on the one square foot of counter that exists in their almost-kitchenette, attempting to shove half a bun of rehydrated bread in her mouth, and Shmi appears to be investigating the cupboards. Both of them have damp hair and freshly scrubbed skin, having made use of the fresher. 

  
Arla greets him before he can say anything, likely to keep Shmi from startling. 

  
Ben looks at Arla and starts to ask, “Is everything…” he trails off quickly. He has never made inquiries about this sort of thing. He does not know how to phrase it.

  
"It went perfectly. In fact - " she stops dead as she gets a look at the dead, slightly desiccated womp rat Shmi has just pulled from the cooler unit. “Ugh.” 

  
Ben sighs. “Well, I have acquired the fuel we will need, and the first sun is just setting,” he says pleasantly.

  
“We will need more rations,” Shmi says, knuckles white and eyes refusing to look at him. “And a spare water filter…” She hesitates to ask for more, and Ben relieves her of the clearly trying effort.

  
“I will trust your judgement. I am merely there to ensure nothing unpleasant occurs,” he says, stepping forward to hand her the credits pouch.

  
Shmi turns to take it, stops, turns back to throw the dead womp rat down the disposal unit, and then turns back and cautiously lifts it from his hands. He ignores that hers shake, and smiles at Arla instead, whose cheeks are puffed up with the bread she is valiantly trying to chew. That girl and bread is the only love story in which Ben has not lost faith.

  
Shmi takes a few more minutes to inspect what surprises remain in their kitchenette, and then nods that she is ready to go. Arla declares her intent to stay behind and "guard the ship." Ben knows what she really means: Arla needs time to regroup and process now that the immediate work is complete. They will have to have a long conversation soon, to discuss and plan. Whatever happens now, Ben's decision to free Shmi has already changed things.

  
Shmi is no longer wearing the collared garment marked with Gardulla’s emblem; Arla had folded a set of tunics and leggings into one of their packs, using them to camoflauge their more... sensitive items. The undyed fabric is softer than anything Shmi has worn before today, but the clothing is still plain. Many still see her as a slave, but Ben’s presence stops any leers from becoming more than that. They rent a hover-cart to carry their purchases, and Shmi acquires what the ship needs with the deft acuity of a life-long haggler.

  
A paunchy Twi’lek spits at Shmi. Ben balks in surprise, and he steps between the Shmi and the unpleasant scrap-monger.

  
“I rather think we are done dealing with you,” Ben says, voice edged with warning, the vocorder in his helmet making it harsher. The Twi’lek eyes him up and down and backs off without a grumble.

  
Shmi’s face is utterly blank as they move to the next peddler.

  
Shmi takes longer among the food vendors, quietly whispering to Ben as she picked over their choices. They have a quiet discussion about ration packs versus fresh food, of which Ben is only adamant that they need some form of protein other than bugs.

  
Ben discreetly acquires a small bag of candied pallies and desert plums, an act which does not escape Shmi’s notice at all, if the flat look she gave him was any indication. Ben just smiles innocently and drops them inside the battered tea kettle he has purchased. Candied pallies and desert plums had been favorites of Anakin; Ben has a feeling that he got it from his mother.

  
The freed woman is far more hesitant to spend their credits on the things she needs personally, and Ben’s attempt at making casual suggestions is met with as much if not more haggling between the pair of them than between Shmi and the vendors. Shmi wins on principle, of course, acquiring only the simplest, cheapest clothes, but she concedes to allow Ben to convince her to obtain good quality shawls and cloaks for herself on the merit that space travel was far colder than Tatooine.

  
One decision, and the only decision Ben makes on her behalf is the acquisition of a small blaster with stun charges and a vibroblade with a wrist sheath.

  
Shmi’s composure falters for a moment, overcome with panic, before she pushes it down and nods without looking at him as he set them among their other purchases.

  
As soon as they leave Tatooine's atmosphere, Arla starts teaching Shmi how to use both. Ben smiles at the explanations of Shii-Cho. It is comforting to hear teaching without the undercurrent of "learn quickly, so you can fight the war." On the third night, he joins them. Teaching Shmi is far more relaxing, than teaching Anakin ever was. Ben hates to say it, but teaching Shmi brings him far more joy than teaching Anakin ever did.

~*~

It is a more adventurous trip than any of them would like. Between encouraging Shmi through the basics of self defense and meditation and doing their best not to constantly overwhelm her with their presence given the tight quarters, Arla and Ben are unable to have a proper conversation. It turns out that it is probably for the best, as they experienced a severe heating malfunction that melted several circuits, of which they eventually managed to bypass after free-floating in empty space for an entire cycle for fear of overheating the ships paltry hyperdrive, causing them to seek out a nearby planet on which to land. Ben and Arla both suck in a deep breath.

  
 _Manda'yaim_ is within reach. They can go home. For the first time in their lives, Arla and Ben do something completely selfish.

  
They land outside of Keldabe, which is still yet the capitol city. Ben and Arla can feel each other's intent in the Force: if either has their way, Sundari will never usurp it. 

  
Ben thinks muses as they walk through the streets to the few governmental buildings. They are few and not well-positioned. Traditionally, everything has been placed in _Be'Mand'alor Yaim_ , but as there is no _veman Mand'alor_ , the Palace is closed. He thinks of Satine. He loved her, loves her still. Part of him regrets not leaving the Order to stand at her side. Years with nothing to do have allowed him to think clearly, however, and he knows now that she killed Mandalore.

  
People did not like to admit it, but the New Mandalorians were as extremist as the _Kyr'staad_. In the end, they were just as deadly. Mandalore was a culture of warriors. To take that away was to kill them spiritually. To take that away when people sought their deaths was murder. Ben had barely left his bed for a ten-day when he realized this truth. 

  
The office building is small but clean. The receptionist, a Devaronian-Twi'lek hybrid, if Ben has to guess and who Arla would hate trying to treat as a Healer, does not wear armour and is clearly displeased that Ben and Arla do. Ah, the New Mandalorians are already filling the government. Lovely.

  
Filling out the paperwork to settle is surprisingly easy, however. The receptionist becomes decidedly more amicable upon learning Arla is a _Baar'ur_ , and Shmi is a freed slave. Apparently, it means they are not savage brutes. Ben is almost amused at the insult; of all the things Obi-Wan Kenobi had been called, a "savage brute" is not one of them.

  
They are granted a homestead between Keldabe and Sundari. It is 160 acres of pure desert land, which will take quite a bit of work to cultivate with the aid of the Force. There is at least a structure on the land already, and although it will likely need repairs, it should be easier than trying to build a new one. 

  
" _Meg tayli bic?_ " Who owns it?

They hesitate for a moment before Arla responds, naming them. " _Ben bal Arla... Naasade_ ," she hopes the receptionist is not so uncouth as to ask why they are "nobody", " _bal Shmi Skywalker_."

  
The receptionist says nothing, but Ben and Arla are too distracted by Shmi to pay attention anyway. She does not know what to think about owning something, especially not land, something with her name on it. 

  
"Ar-are you sure?"

  
"Positive."

  
They sell most of their reserve fuel to the government, making far more back than what they paid for it on Tatooine. They decide to go investigate the land and see what they need before making any purchases.

  
Ben laughs a little under his breath as they reboard the ship. All the effort he made to avoid becoming a farmer, and with a second chance at life, that is what he chooses to do.

~*~

The land is desert. There is sand and not much else to say. Ben suspects that cacti would grow well, and that is something, at least. 

  
The _yaim_ is actually fairly large. There are five bedrooms, a front room that leads to the _karyai_ , a kitchen, and two 'freshers. There are two small rooms off of the front room, and Arla says she would like to turn the first into a dedicated healing room. After all, they would need a way to make money, and healing is one of the most honorable ways to do so.

  
The biggest and best surprise, however, was the small greenhouse which was attached to the house. All of the plants were long-dead, of course, and two of the glass panels would need to be replaced, but building it from scratch would have been prohibitively expensive. Having a greenhouse is an unexpected blessing. They could have lived without it, of course, but with it, they will be much more independent, and much more secure. It will let them grow plants, both to eat and to use in healing, long before the land is healed enough to do so. 

  
In all things, the Force provides. 

  
Now, they just have to make sure they do not lose this home as they did the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is inspired by "The Desert Storm" series by Blue_Sunshine, which is, in my humble opinion, the greatest work in the Star Wars universe since "A New Hope" was released. 
> 
> This chapter was as long as it was because I wanted to get things well established. Yes, it is essentially largely an edited version of chapters one and two of "The Desert Storm," which is why I wanted to publish them together. Things will certainly be travelling in a very different direction from this point onwards, but many elements from Blue's universe will remain. I will try to do regular updates, but I hesitate to promise anything.
> 
> Please feel free to leave any questions, comments, concerns, or statements of hatred in the comments.
> 
> Mando'a Translations  
> Beskar'gam - literally "iron-skin;" the name of traditional Mandalorian armour  
> Ni jate, Buir - I'm fine, Dad.  
> Shig - Mandalorian beverage that is made of whatever plants happen to be around, but it is traditionally made with behot a spicy citrus plant; I headcanon shig tastes a lot like ginger or ginger-lemon tea.  
> Kutise - plural (I think) of kute, the traditional undersuit worn beneath beskar'gam  
> Buir - parent/mom/dad  
> Nayc - no  
> Manda'yaim - the planet Mandalore  
> veman Mand'alor - real/genuine sole-ruler/monarch  
> Be'Mand'alor Yaim - Palace; this is a concept of my own creation  
> Baar'ur - medic  
> Meg tayli bic? - literally "who holds it," but I mean it as in "Who owns it?/Who goes on the deed?"  
> Ben bal Arla... Naasade. Bal Shmi Skywalker. - Ben and Arla... Nobody. And Shmi Skywalker.  
> Yaim - home  
> Karyai - main room in a traditional Mandalorian home; this room is kind of like a living room/dining room combination in an open floorplan house. It would be where everyone went in case of an attack.


	2. Chapter 2

Their home is actually fairly easy to make liveable, if it is somewhat time-consuming and labor-intensive. The trio sleep in the _Red Kettle_ for the first ten-day. It feels amazing when they are finally able to move into the house properly. They paint the door teal, so people know this place is a place healing. 

  
Arla has taken to teaching Shmi... everything. She spends hours on the HoloNet researching and hunting down a basic curriculum. Ben is only slightly surprised when she finds one for the full twelve years of standard education. It uses three terms, each equal to one quarter. Given Shmi's desire to learn, Ben does not think she will take the quarter break scheduled for more traditionally-aged students.

  
Their days are simple and follow a peaceful sort of pattern. They begin by reading a poem every morning before breakfast. Throughout the day, they work on the house, and Arla does lessons with Shmi. They are brief, no more than fifteen minutes long. They cover everything: the basics of reading and counting, but they also add in lessons for art and music appreciation, as well as nature study. They do not study subjects such as history or science yet. They do not want to overwhelm Shmi by giving her too many lessons from the start, but they also want to help give her an appreciation for beautiful things. 

  
In the evenings, they train. They still stick primarily with Shii-Cho, but they practice it in all sorts of ways, with a standard grip, with a reverse grip, with two blades, with two blades in a reverse grip, with a staff, and even bare-handed. She is eager to learn. 

  
They find that Shmi is a natural mechanic, and though she has no formal training, she is intuitive with engineering and construction. They find she knows a fair bit about desert plants, at least as much as either of them. Those skills are important when it comes to working on the greenhouse.

  
Ben has mapped out the space. Not a single inch is wasted in his plan. Purchasing seeds is cheaper than purchasing already grown plants. With the Force, growing them will not be particularly difficult, especially in the greenhouse. Still, they choose plants better-suited to desert climates.

  
Shmi comes in the greenhouse while Arla and Ben are working. Arla asks if she wanted to help. Shmi says, "I am not a Jedi. I can not do what you do."

  
Arla replies, "It is only for a lack of training, Shmi, not ability. You have the gift of the Force. You have the right to learn how to use it."

  
"You would teach me?"

  
"Shmi Skywalker, I would take you as my Padawan today if you would let me be your teacher, but I will teach you all I can regardless."

  
"I thought you said the Order only takes students as children?"

  
"On Coruscant, yes," Arla confirms, and Ben can see the truth in Arla's eyes. He sees the youngling who was born into a world where the Sith were not long-dead, where a Padawan killed one after seeing his own master murdered. He sees the Initiate who watched the Senate Dome bombed. He sees the Padawan who was trained as a Guardian when all she wanted was to be a Healer. He sees the fourteen-year-old Commander. He sees the sixteen-year old who was betrayed by her troopers, who felt her people die, who saw her home burned. He sees the seventeen-year-old who removed slave chips in dusty backrooms. He sees the nineteen-year-old who earned her Knighthood through greater Trials than anything the Council could conceive, who understood the Force better than he had at her age. "But we are not there, and the Council has no right to govern those not registered within the Coruscanti Temple. Besides, by the time we contact them, you will likely be a Knight already, and they will be unable to say anything anyway."

  
"You think I can learn what you know?"

  
"Even more."

  
It is a Mando week, a five-day instead of the ten-day standard, before Shmi accepts, but she wears her braid with pride. The beads she wears are various colors.

  
Arla is an Orthodox Jedi, that is one who does not follow the precepts of the Ruusaan Reformation. She has slowly converted Ben to her beliefs over the past four years, and it seems she plans to train Shmi in the same manner. As such, Shmi's training will be both more personalized and more regimented.

  
Before and during the Sith Wars, Jedi were ranked more strictly and visibly. Initiates wore cream robes, Junior Learners wore tan robes, and Senior Learners wore brown robes. Knights and Masters wore robes in the colors of their choosing, but the most traditional saw Knights wear blue robes, and Masters wear green robes. 

  
Their obis did not match their tunics. Initiates had to earn their first obi, which was cream. After that, as they advanced, they were given new obis in different colors. When they earned a tan obi, they began wearing tan tunics with a cream belt, and the process restarted. There were actually a few points in their history where Learners could be taken only after they earned the tan obi. When they earned a brown belt, they began wearing brown robes with a cream belt and was allowed to begin taking assignments with a Knight or Master. When they earned a brown belt, they were considered Knights, and their Knighthoods were confirmed after a public reaffirmation of their vows. It was not until after the Sith Wars ended that the Council felt the need to add created Trials, believing that life alone no longer provided an adequate test of skills and faith.

  
The beads had greater meaning as well. Each bead was carved to represent a skill, such as physical use of the Force, mental use of the Force, combat skills, etc. There were requirements for each level of each skill, and the beads were awarded based on the skill-level of a particular area, regardless of the others. When all beads were at or above a certain level, Learners were awarded a belt of that color. 

  
Arla tests Shmi to determine her skill-level. Shmi has skills at all levels, including Mastery, when one considers her Hide-Me Force shield. She barely scrapes out enough telekinetic control to earn a cream bead, holding a feather in the air for barely eleven seconds (the minimum requirement was ten), but she does manage it.

  
When Arla presents Shmi with her cream obi, Ben presents her with another gift: Qui-Gon's lightsaber. 

  
"I am sorry we can not let you seek your own crystal, but I hope that you will accept this one until we can manage it."

  
"Oh, Ben, are you sure?"

  
"I can think of nobody better to carry it."

  
"Thank you."

  
They add another meditation to their schedule; unlike the others, this one focuses on Shmi and her crystal. They also add lessons in Makashi, but they do not give up Shii-Cho.

~*~

Over the coming months, they gain a reputation for being the best healers in the area but also the cheapest. They spend little of the money they earn, preferring to save it. At the moment, they are working towards several goals, some large and others small. 

  
Their largest goal is Shmi's _beskar'gam_ , but they have it broken down by piece. Their first goal for it are lower vambraces. They are the traditional first pieces of armour, as they are also usually the least expensive. Shmi wearing vambraces would show she is truly becoming Mando.

  
Their next largest goal was an AGR series environmental droid and a setup to analyze the samples it collected. They did not need anything fancy, just something which could test soil acidity, carbon and nitrogen levels, and identify various common chemicals, bacteria, and other microorganisms. It would help them determine what sort of fertilizers they needed and which cover crops to plant. Later, when they could farm for food and sale, the droid could help plan crop rotations. 

  
Their third largest goal was a medi droid. With the Force and Arla's training, they did not truly need one, but it would be useful. A basic droid could help do standard scans, including determining primary species attributes in hybrids. 

  
One day, Shmi asks why they could not simply expand the greenhouse, and Ben replies, "If we did that, we could more much more quickly, but the land would still be just as damaged, if not moreso by the duracrete." 

~*~

Shmi hates the sand exercises, but she also loves them. She has a bowl of sand. She is supposed to move the grains individually. All she can currently do, though, is raise a heap of it, and even then only for a few seconds. 

  
_Ar'Baji'buir_ assures Shmi it is fine. She is learning. She is making progress. Shmi knows this fact is true.

  
Still, sand is cruel. It whips and cuts. It is without mercy. She hates it.

  
Then she watches _Ar'Baji'buir_ or _Be'Baji'buir_ make it dance, and it is not cruel. It is beautiful. Shmi finds that she can not hate it. 

~*~

Arla grins with pride when she presents Shmi with her orange obi three months after taking the woman as her Padawan. Shmi's beads are a rainbow of colors. Despite only wielding a lightsaber for three months, she already has a yellow bead. She currently studies Shii-Cho, Makashi, and Soresu. Arla says Shmi needs to work on her flexibility and some gymnastics before they start working on Ataru.

  
There is a surprise as well. The obi is wrapped around a pair of vambraces. Shmi has her first pieces of armour.

  
For her part, Shmi can not believe it, but neither _Ar'Baji'buir_ nor _Be'Baji'buir_ are the sort to give someone something they have not earned. Still, she can not even read. How can she advance at all? 

  
Ben is proud of Shmi, but she makes his heart ache. Still, to have a Grandpadawan again, to be a _Ba'Baji'buir_ again heals more wounds than it opens. He thanks the Force and the Gods everyday for Shmi and Arla. 

~*~

The people know they are Jedi... or were Jedi. Nobody is quite certain about their standing within the Order, least of all them. Still, it is one thing for a farmer to trust them with a cut arm, and it is another thing for the _Haat Mando'ade_ to trust them with blaster shots. Somehow, though, at two in the morning with the sky pitch-black, they are woken by a ship landing close to the house. They are woken by Jaster Mereel nearly ripping the door off of its hinges, a feat considering he is also holding an unconscious, bleeding Jango Fett. 

  
The boy looks to be about Shmi's age when she lets her shields drop. He is likely only about fifteen, barely old enough to wear armour. 

  
They do not have to ask who has shot him. They know already that it was _Kyr'staad_. 

  
Jaster is hesitant to allow them to use the Force to heal his son, but when Jango lets out a strangled cry of pain, he can not agree fast enough. Struggles makes a Mando, but no parent wants their child to suffer. 

  
He is healed in less than half of a standard hour. Without Bacta or the Force, it would have taken several painful weeks to heal, and the scarring would have been heavy.

  
Arla hands Jaster a jar of cream, "He will be sore for several more days. This cream is made of several plants, including Japur and aloe, which should help him in the coming days. It will also help with any nonfatal injuries the rest of you have."

  
" _Tion'solet?"_ (How much?(

  
_"Nu'mhi hiibi waadas teh verde akaani Kyr'staad olar_." (We do not take money from those fighting Death Watch here.)

  
Jaster opens his mouth to protest, closes it, then opens it again, " _Gar ad liniba cetare. Mhi ven dinui cetare bah kaysh_." His tone is final. (Your daughter needs boots. We will give them to her.)

  
They do not try to argue. Instead they simply say, " _Vor entye, cuun Mand'alor_." (Thank you, our King.)

  
The greaveboots are tailor-made. They have a tight-seam on the outer-facing and a loose-seam on the inner one, the same as Arla and Ben. Shmi is not acrobatic in her fighting, but she appreciates the maneuverability. 

~*~

Life continues in this pattern over the coming months. They buy the AGR droid, which is quickly named Agri, and the unit. They begin purchasing seeds for and planting cover crops. They choose to only work on about three acres this year, until they learn more about the land.

  
Shmi continues her training. It takes her four months to earn her yellow belt but only two to earn her green belt. She still only practices Shii-Cho, Makashi with a lightsaber, and Soresu, but Arla has began teaching her Ataru barehanded. 

  
Shmi has also began reading her first book. It is a children's primer. Each day, there are a handful of words, typically around four or six. She reads the words three times a day, typically before each meal. Then at night, before bed, she reads the page for the day. It starts with barely a sentence and builds slowly.

  
Arla and Ben write detailed reports for the Council each night, although they do not know if, let alone when, they will be read. 

  
They get more patients from the _Haat Mando'ade_ , who seem to be intent upon paying them with _beskar'gam_ for Shmi and _besbe'trayce_ for them all. Shmi frets over the cost until Jango, for once not one of their patients, explains that they do not buy them with money, that they take them from the _Kyr'staad_ in battle. 

  
Ben and Arla do little more to help the _Haat Mando'ade_ , but they do some. They house _Haat Mando'ade ori'ramikade_ when they need it, and they help disperse supplies and information. It is not like being on the front lines of the Clone War, and they are fine with that fact, until rumor has it that an attack is planned for Keldabe. 

~*~

Ben is familiar with the Battle of Keldabe, or rather, he is familiar with the political ramifications of it. In the original timeline, the damage sustained in Keldabe is horrible. The governmental offices are suspected to cost more to repair than to rebuild, and many officials die. This aftermatch of this battle is when the New Mandalorians truly begin to gain power. 

  
It starts simply, he remembers, with a few government offices being moved "temporarily" from Keldabe to Sundari. 

  
"There is no doubt we have already began changing things, Buir," Arla tells Ben. "I mean, _nu'mhi ru olar_." 

  
She is right. They had not been here last time. Arla was decades from being born yet, and, if Obi-Wan Kenobi is alive, it is a fairly recent development. They had not been here last time, and because of that change, there are _Haat Mando'ade_ who are alive now who were not then, who are now unimpeded by injuries which slowed and killed them in the past. Ben knows because he has seen the difference in numbers.

  
Healing is a good, honest thing. 

  
Teaching is as well.

  
Freeing the enslaved is too.

  
All of these are good things. They all cause change. Ben knows this statement is true. 

  
Fighting in a battle feels different, though. Ben knows why.

  
With the other actions, he has no reports on what is changing. 

  
Yes, someone is healthy who was previously injured, but Ben does not have a list of how every _Haat Mando'ade_ died. He does not have to think about what changes with one person's life. He can simply bask in Arla's relief-joy at a life saved.

  
No, Shmi Skywalker was not trained in the other timeline. In several years, she would have been sold from Gardulla to Watto, the Toydarian who had owned Anakin when Qui-Gon met the boy. She lived and died on Tatooine. When he watches her master a kata, or feels her meditate with her lightsaber, he does not think of former past. 

  
When he helps Shmi and Arla remove slave chips from people, he does not think about how these people lived and died enslaved. He does not think about how, now freed, many of them add to the _Haat Mando'ade_ number. No, Ben thinks only about how slavery is evil, and he is happy to play a small part in lessening its cruel hold. 

  
In other words, _Ben Naasade cuyi huttuun_ , which will not do. 

  
He comms Jaster Mereel, and says simply, " _Ni ven akaani, ner Mand'alor_." I will fight, my King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all. My computer and AO3 are have a spat, so if the formatting is off, tell me, but forgive me. 
> 
> The pace of this chapter moved very quickly to me, and while I do not have an issue with it, I do not think this will be typical. I really want to showcase more daily life, but my muse wants to get things established, so guess who is winning? That's right, not me. I'm just the author. 
> 
> If y'all have any suggestions, please share them. I have an outline to a point, but it only goes so far, and there are gaps in it besides. Please, feel free to leave them and any questions, comments, concerns, or statements of hatred in the comments. As always, thank y'all for reading!
> 
> Mando'a Translations  
> Beskar'gam - Mandalorian armour, traditionally made from beskar iron; literal translation "iron skin"  
> Ar'Baji'buir - Literally "Arla teacher-parent;" Blue uses the created word "Baji'buir" as the Mando'a translation of Master, and I added the Mando tradition of adding the first couple of letters of a parent's name to signify which parent exactly. I feel this term will be easier for former slaves to use than "Master." Basically, the translation is "Master Arla."  
> Be'Baji'buir - Literally "Ben teacher-parent;" more accurately "Master Ben;" slight play on the Mando'a term for Grandmaster  
> Ba'Baji'buir - Grandmaster  
> Haat Mando'ade - True Mandalorians  
> Kyr'staad - Death Watch  
> Tion'solet - How much?  
> Nu'mhi hiibi waadas teh verde akaani Kyr'staad olar- Literally, "We do not take wealth from the soldiers fighting Death Watch here;" basically, "For y'all, no charge."  
> Gar ad liniba cetare. Mhi ven dinui cetare bah kaysh. - Your child needs boots. We will give them to her.  
> Vor entye, cuun Mand'alor. - Thank you, our King.  
> Besbe'trayce - Weapons  
> Ori'ramikade - Supercommandos  
> Buir - Parent/Mom/Dad  
> Nu'mhi ru olar. - We were not here.  
> Ben Naasade cuyi huttuun. - Ben Naasade is a coward.  
> Ni ven akaani, ner Mand'alor. - I will fight, my King.
> 
> *Mand'alor - sole-ruler; I tend to translate it as King/Queen/Monarch because that's the closest translation that seems to fit.


	3. Chapter 3

Arla worries about Shmi. Her Padawan is still in cream tunics, still two belts away from wearing tan. She gets along well with her _kad'au_ , but they are not yet bonded. Her beskar'gam is not complete yet either; she needs a _buy'ce_ , breast-plate, and _kute_ before it can even begin to be considered complete. Arla worries, but Shmi does not.  
Shmi Skywalker has faced a life of cruelty and suffering. She lived on her master's mercy alone for as long as she can remember, until one day, a pair of strangers whisked her away to freedom. It is not what she expected.

  
When Shmi dreamed of freedom, she never imagined leaving Tatooine. She imagined living on a farm on the outskirts of one city or another. She imagined paying whatever taxes the Hutts set and fearing raids by Tuskens or Niktos or anyone else who took the notion. She imagined that in freedom she would still be nobody, and Shmi was fine with that outcome.

  
She is not nobody. 

  
She is a Padawan Learner to a Jedi Knight. She is possibly Mandalorian. She owns a farm, and on it, they heal - sentients, plants, the land, a stray _kyr'oya'kar_ who has yet to leave, and even themselves. 

  
She is being taught how to fight, and she is good at it, she thinks. She is given armour, and it feels right to wear. Shmi never considered either of these things before being freed. Slaves are not allowed to strike others, not even in defense. 

  
Shmi is no longer a slave.

  
She is still Amavikka, and she will not watch as Depur binds others. 

  
The Kyr'staad are Depur. 

  
She will kill them, if that is what it takes, to stop them.

~*~

Jaster watches the _Jetiise_ closely. He trusts them, although many say he should not. The thing is, these Jedi, if they are Jedi, they are as Mando as he or Jango or any of _val vod'e_. Still, he watches them closely. Jedi do not often fight in armies, after all.

  
These seem to have experience, though, or, Ben and Arla do. _Shmi'ka_ will be seeing her first real battle. He pairs her with Jango and prays they do not march far away at the battle's end.

~*~

Jango has seen battle before this one. His first was when his home was attacked on Concord Dawn. He was twelve, did not even have full armour yet. He saw that battle less than two years ago. He has seen many since.

  
This one feels different, somehow. 

  
He hopes it is not a warning. He hopes he does not lose Jaster so soon.

~*~

Ben feels fire curl in his stomach. He has not been a General for a long time, but, apparently, it is not a practice which easily leaves. He takes orders well, but he also has suggestions. The others seems surprised but are not offended. Mandalorians are not rigidly hierarchial, after all. Whoever is best suited to the job is best suited to it. 

  
He thinks it helps that the only sign he is a Jedi is his kad'au. Regardless, they trust him, and they listen to him. He does his best to be worthy of it.

  
He regrets not studying the Battle of Keldabe in greater detail, but how could he have known he needed to do so. He wracks his memory for all he can remember, however.  
Korda 6 took place less than a ten-day after Keldabe. Jaster Mereel was killed - betrayed by his second-in-command - there. Jango was only fourteen. Could he really become _Mand'alor_ so young?

~*~

The majority of Keldabe are supporters of the _Haat Mando'ade_ , and most would fight. The New Mandalorians are mostly just starting to form, and few actually belong to the group, unlike in later years. They are willing to hide, however, rather than get in the way, at least. 

  
The assault is on _Keldabe ast_ , rather than the _Haat Mando'ade_. This distinction is both a help and a hindrance. On one hand, it means that _Kyr'staad_ is there mostly for property damage rather than slaughter. On the other hand, it means there is a great risk to civilians. The _Haat Mando'ade_ must find a way to make this situation work.

~*~

Ben is uncomfortable. He was a General, once in his life. He was a General, and he lead from the front. They had primarily fought droids, though, and beheading a clanker was different than doing so to a sentient. Still, he uses his kad'au to direct blaster shots back to the shooters and reminds himself of Shmi and Arla, of what these soldiers would do to his girls. 

  
His aim grows more lethal after that thought.

  
Cody would have been proud, but Qui-Gon would have been horrified.

  
Ben does not know which he is. 

~*~

Shmi is not better than those she is fighting. She has not trained nearly as long, and her body has not always been as well fed. She has, however, seen what these bastards are willing to do. She has seen the girls at Gardulla's after business is done with the _Kyr'staad_. 

  
So, no, Shmi Skywalker is not better than her opponents, but she has more to lose, more to protect. She is more desperate, and Lukka must answer her prayers. Because while Shmi Skywalker is not better, she is more deadly.

~*~

Jango watches the woman at his side in awe. She is beautiful fury. Like a warrior of old, she serves justice with her blade. 

  
He watches her so closely, he almost does not see Jaster fall.

  
She does, and in an instant, they are running. 

  
Tor Vizla wields the _Kad'dha,_ and neither is better than he is.

  
They may not be better together either, but Tor Vizla fights like a man with nothing at stake. He fights like a man indulging a small child. He does not fight like a man facing death.

  
Shmi's _kad'au_ is slightly too large for her hands. It likely belonged to a man first, one bigger than Ben. It slips from her grip, as it has in practice.

  
Jango grabs it before it hits the ground, and while Vizla goes to strike down the now-unarmed Shmi, Jango sweeps it through the gaps in his _beskar'gam_ , between the cod-piece and mid-section. 

  
He barely has time to grab the _Kad'dha_ before he and Shmi are at Jaster's side.

~*~

Arla acts on instinct when she sees the ship heading towards the _Oyu'baat_. She grasps it with the Force and flings it out of the way. It is not until after it crashes that she remembers there were people, not clankers, on board.

  
The Force is rife with cold, oily feeling of the Dark side. 

  
They would all need to meditate after this battle. They would all need to reset themselves upon the path of the Light.

~*~

The _Kyr'staad_ retreat when they notice Jango has the _Kad'dha_. They run for their ships and quickly take off from the planet. It takes awhile before everyone realizes what has happened. 

  
Shmi and Jango are already carrying Jaster to the _Baarure_ when Arla and Ben spot them. Arla lets them carry him, while she commandeers a bed in the temporary ward on which to treat him. 

  
Arla and Shmi quickly get the worst of his injuries healed. He will need a bit of time to heal, but within an hour, he is no longer critical.

  
When Arla declares him well enough for visitors, Jango bolts to his side. He then falls to his left and bows his head while raising the _Kad'dha_ on open palms. " _Haar Kad'dha, ner Mand'alor_."

  
" _Nayc, ner ad'ika_ ," Jaster replies. " _Nu'ni haar Mand'alor. Gar ru kyr'amu Vizla. Kad'dha gar. Gar haar veman Mand'alor. Gar ner Mand'alor._ "

  
Well, Ben thinks, the Force wills Jango be the _Mand'alor_ so young. We can only hope that hardship is the cruelest he must face. 

~*~

The trio stay in Keldabe for the coming weeks. Arla needs to check on Jaster, and Shmi likes to join her. 

  
They train quite a bit, but their focus is on meditation. They all got close to the Dark side during the battle, and they need to reset themselves. It is a practice they will need years of practice to perfect.

  
Jango joins them for training and some meditation. He has trained with a vibroblade, of course, but it is entirely different to fight with a _kad'au_. Ben insists Jango meditate with the blade. The three Jedi can hear it screaming. With each meditation, it cries a little less. 

  
They join in the efforts to help repair _Be'Mand'alor Yaim o'r Keldabe_. Years of abandonment have taken a slight toll, but the efforts go quite smoothly. The Jedi offer to rebuild the Palace greenhouses. Jango accepts. They do not accept his offer to move into the Palace itself, but they can not stop him from giving them rooms.

  
When they return to the farm, a baby wrapped in a ratty blanket is on the doorstep. He does not feel ill in the Force, so he must have been taken care of before his abandonment. A letter written on flimsi in Galactic Basic is tucked into the blanket's folds. It reads simply:

  
_I cannot keep the boy. We are Stewjoni, and the Elders say the Force is a curse. They have ordered him exposed. I leave him here in obedience to their wishes but with the hope he is found. If it can be done, let him be raised a Jedi. If it can be done, let him keep his name. Let him be known as Obi-Wan Kenobi._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not pleased with this chapter, but I cannot get myself out of the corner I made in the last chapter, so here we are. I'm sorry it took a while to get this chapter posted. My old flash-drive died (it's a near perfect "C" now), and I lost all of my notes. Here's to hoping part two goes a bit more smoothly!
> 
> Suggestions and criticism are welcome!
> 
> Mando'a Translations  
> Kad'au - lightsaber  
> Beskar'gam - armour  
> Buy'ce - helmet  
> Kute- undersuit  
> Kyr'oya'kar - Mandalorian wolf; can understand Mando'a and fully bond with clans  
> Kyr'staad - Death Watch  
> Jetiise - Jedi (plural)  
> Val vod'e - their siblings/brothers/sisters  
> Shmi'ka - little Shmi  
> Mand'alor - sole-ruler of Mandalore; I tend to translate it as King/Queen/Monarch  
> Keldabe ast - Keldabe itself  
> Haat Mando'ade - True Mandalorians  
> Kad'dha - the Darksaber; traditionally carried by the Mand'alor; kind of the only real crown jewel of Mandalore  
> Haar Kad'dha, ner Mand'alor - The Darksaber, my King  
> Nayc, ner ad'ika. Nu'ni Mand'alor. Gar ru kyr'amu Vizla. Kad'dha gar. Gar haar veman Mand'alor. Gar /ner/ Mand'alor. - No, my little one. I am not the King. You killed Vizla. The Darksaber is yours. You are the real King. You are /my/ King.  
> Be'Mand'alor Yaim o'r Keldabe - literally, The Mand'alor's Home in Keldabe; basically the Palace of Keldabe. This building is where all of the governmental offices should and will be located.


End file.
